THE EARTHLY PARADISE
According to the Moslem wise men, Jebel Kasyun is a very sacred mount;
for upon it Abraham dwelt when there was revealed to him the supreme
doctrine of the unity of God. Long before that, however, Adam lived
here: some say that he was formed from the earth of this very mountain,
and that the reddish streaks upon its sides are nothing less than the
indelible bloodstains of murdered Abel.
Yet as we stand by the little shrine known as the Dome of Victory, which
crowns the summit, we are not thinking of ancient legends. Below us lies
a scene of entrancing interest and of a peculiar beauty which is unlike
that of any other beautiful prospect in the world.
Back of us are the mighty, rock-buttressed Mountains of the East, from
whose sterile heart is rent a deep, dark ravine which thunders with the
cascades of the Abana. Then, issuing from its narrow defile, Abana is
suddenly tamed. It spreads fan-like into seven quiet branches; and these
in turn divide and subdivide into a myriad life-giving streams which
sink at last in wilderness sands, but, ere they sink, make the desert to
rejoice and blossom as the rose.[24]
In the foreground of the picture, Damascus seems like an immense silver
spoon laid on a piece of soft, green plush. The long, slender handle,
which is made up of the modern peasant-markets, stretches away two miles
southward. The nearer bowl is the site of the ancient city. Above its
monotonous succession of solidly massed houses are seen high, cylindrical
roofs which cover the most important bazaars; in the very center stands
the famous Omayyade Mosque with its splendid dome and spacious court and
three lofty towers, while a multitude of other graceful minarets—it is
said that they are exactly as many as the days of the year—rise above the
most mysterious and fascinating of Moslem capitals. Surely the traveler
must be ignorant of history and bereft of sentiment who does not feel a
deep, strange thrill as he first looks upon the great city which since
the dawn of history has sat in proud strength between the mountains and
the desert.
From the viewpoint of physical geography, Syria is Lebanon; but
politically, commercially and socially, it is still true that “the head
of Syria is Damascus.”[25] Indeed, the city is now hardly ever called by
its real name, _Dimeshk_. It is simply _esh-Shâm_—Syria!
History does not recall a time when Damascus did not nestle here among
the orchards which sweep out to the edge of the desert. The Moslem
tradition that it was founded by Eliezer, the chief servant of Abraham,
points to far too late a date. Josephus tells us that it was built by Uz,
the grandson of Shem the son of Noah, and that when Abraham came hither
from Ur with an army of Chaldeans, he captured the already old capital
and for a time reigned here as king of Syria.[26] “The name of Abram is
even now famous in the country of Damascus,” adds the Jewish historian.
Eighteen hundred years later, that is still true.
Without discussing further its legendary claims to supreme antiquity, it
is safe to say that Damascus is the oldest important city in the world
with an unbroken history reaching to the present day. The fame of its
artificers and gardeners is embodied even in our English language; for
we speak of Damascus steel, the damask plum, damask rose, damask color,
damask decoration and damaskeened metal-work. Many of the greatest men of
earth have trodden its streets or fought before its walls or worshiped at
its shrines. Abraham the Hebrew, Tiglath-pileser the Assyrian conqueror,
Herod the Great, Paul of Tarsus, Khaled the “Sword of Allah,” Baldwin of
Flanders, Louis VII. of France, Nureddin the Syrian, Saladin the Kurd,
Tamerlane the Tartar—such are only a few of the names which come to mind
as we gaze upon the time-stained, battle-worn, but still rich and haughty
city. To tell adequately the story of this most ancient of capitals would
necessitate covering all the centuries of human history.
At the foot of the hill we shall find a tram-car waiting to take us
to a modern hotel with electric lights and city-water, and in the
evening we can hear a phonograph in any one of a hundred cafés, or
visit moving-picture shows in the Serai Square, where a tall column
commemorates the completion of the telegraph-line to Mecca. Yet, for all
these recent innovations from the Western world, the real Damascus is
quite unchanged. It is still the most brilliant, entrancing, fanatical
and intolerant of Moslem cities, the one which best preserves the manners
and customs of the early centuries of Islam. Indeed, this is to-day the
typical Arabian Nights city; for Cairo, where those thrilling fairy tales
were first related, is rapidly becoming Europeanized through British
influence, Constantinople is thronged with Greeks and Armenians and
intimidated by foreign embassies, and the glory of Baghdad has long since
departed. But Haroun al-Raschid and his faithful vizier might wander
through the tortuous mazes of the bazaars of Damascus and recognize
hardly an essential change from the life of a Moslem capital of a
thousand years ago.
Its Oriental characteristics have been thus preserved, and will doubtless
be preserved for many years to come, because of all great Arabic-speaking
cities Damascus is least dependent on the West. An impassable wall might
cut it off entirely from intercourse with Europe, and still it would
thrive and wax strong on the wealth of its own orchards and its commerce
with the lands across the Syrian desert.
As we view the wide prospect from the Dome of Victory, the city seems
a whitish island, half hidden by the billows of an ocean of luxuriant
foliage. Far as the eye can see—far as the dim blue hills which mark the
eastern horizon—the plain is flooded with leaves and blossoms. At closer
view we shall recognize the fig and pomegranate, the mulberry, pistachio,
peach, almond and apricot, the tall poplar and waving cypress and bending
grape-vine and short, gnarled olive tree. But from Jebel Kasyun we
perceive only one great expanse of warm, rich verdure; all shapes and
colors are merged into a soft, level green.
Behind us rise the bare, chalky cliffs of Anti-Lebanon. Beyond those low
azure hills at the east is the cruel desert. But between the mountains
and the desert hills lies the hundred square miles of the _Ghûta_—the
“Garden” of Damascus. No language is too extravagant for the Arabic
writers who describe this land of fruits and flowing waters. It is “the
most excellent of all the beautiful places of earth,” exclaims the
learned Abulfeda; and the famous geographer Idrisi says, “There are grown
here all sorts of fruits, so that the mind cannot conceive the variety,
nor can any comparison show what is the fruitfulness and excellence
thereof, for Damascus is the most delightful of God’s cities in the whole
world.” Indeed, this is the place which, among all the habitations of
men, comes nearest to the description of the Moslem paradise—
“The people of the Right Hand!
Oh, how happy shall be the people of the Right Hand!...
In extended shade,
And by flowing waters,
And with abundant fruits,
Unfailing, unforbidden ...
Gardens beneath whose shades the rivers flow.”[27]
The prophet who sang thus of the celestial delights of the Faithful once
stood, it is said, on the summit of this sacred mountain and gazed with
wondering admiration, as we are gazing, on the bounteous splendor of the
Garden of Damascus. But Mohammed refused to go down into the city for
fear lest, having tasted the joys of this earthly paradise, he might lose
his desire for the heavenly.